


unheavenly creatures

by huliabitch



Series: second stage turbine blade [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Pining, clan leader!din
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huliabitch/pseuds/huliabitch
Summary: In order to protect her planet from Imperials Shayr’la is traded to the Mand’alor.I am horrible at summaries but there is arranged marriages, some yearning, some pining, some angst. There will be battle fights and throne sex. And just some goodness all around.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: second stage turbine blade [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852294
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Vizsla is the overarching clan name, underneath there are the different family names but they are mainly kept a secret to outsiders. this was inspired by stevies art on tumblr @magichandthing. i wanna thank tiffany @tiffdawg for being amazing and reading over this for me. i love her and if you are reading the light of stars you need to like rn.

The soft tap of Shayr’la’s shoes echo and bounce along the walls, getting lost on the way up to the vast ceiling above. Painted across them she catches snippets of a story, a story that she is very familiar with. That everyone is familiar with. 

Of how Mand’alor Vizsla claimed his throne. How he stormed this very palace with his Mandalorian army, taking it back from the grips of the Empire. He slaughtered the troopers who fought against him, placing their helmets on spikes and scattered them throughout his land as a warning to others who dared attack. The strength and ruthlessness of that besiege told the rest of the galaxy that Vizsla was not someone to provoke into battle.

Panic begins to set in the closer they draw to the throne room doors. Slowing her pace, an icy chill goes through her veins and takes a strong grip on her lungs; her breath faltering. Shayr’la was here for a reason— a purpose— to help. 

But to help whom? 

That answer is slowly fading from her mind the closer she gets to the doors. She doesn’t want to do this. You have no choice. She doesn’t want to marry him. This isn’t your decision. She doesn’t want to be left alone with this man, with this warrior, for the rest of her life.

What if he is cruel? 

_It’s not your decision._

What if he is selfish?

_Not your choice._

What if he hates her? What if he ignores her?

_**No. Choice.** _

Shayr’la doesn’t realize she’s stopped walking until there is a thud directly behind her. It’s the guard escort halting in place. She turns to look at them wide-eyed and scared, willing them to show her any empathy, any emotion, any help.

Anything.

They don’t. 

They just stand at attention, helmet pointed straight ahead, clad in armor, spear held tight in gloved hands— cold— distant— unfeeling. 

She doesn’t know how she’s going to make it here.

Further ahead the Elder still hasn’t taken notice that Shayr’la is no longer following behind them. They never notice, they never care. To them she is just a bargaining tool. Just another means to an end. Another way to get what they want. She watches as they make it to the throne room doors and turn to speak, finally realizing her absence.

“What are you doing?” The Elder gives a harsh whisper, “Get over here.”

Taking a deep breath she steadies herself. 

_This is happening._

_This is happening no matter what._

Shayr’la straightens her posture and rights her mind, she knows the only way she will make it through this is by remembering what she was told. Do not speak unless spoken to, do not question the Mand’alor, and most importantly, do not look upon the Mandalorian warriors without their helmets. 

Finally, she moves, the guard in step behind her, guiding her towards the inevitable, and the unstoppable, the harsh reality of her future. 

_~~Towards her ending.~~_

_Towards her beginning._

———

The first thing her eyes are drawn to is the many white trooper helmets that litter the ground around the throne chair itself. There are helmets lining the steps up, and around the back of the chair and there are some on spikes around the throne and some cascading down from the ceiling. A rush of fear sweeps through her body as she takes in her surroundings. _Is everywhere here this intimidating?_ If this place is to be her home, she is going to have to get used to it quickly, if she wants to survive— let alone be happy.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Shayr’la doesn’t hear the Elder as they greet the man residing on the throne chair, nor how they continue praising him— on his generosity of protection and allowing this trade to happen, of his superiority in everything compared to her people, and of his blood-thirstiness in battle that leaves his enemies dead— or worse.

“Mand’alor Vizsla, I must say we are eternally grateful that you have accepted this offer; We know she will not disappoint. We can assure you that she will make you very happy and bring you many, many children.” As the Elder speaks they grab her arm tightly turning and bringing her attention towards the front, Shayr’la lets out a small squeak of surprise at the harsh and unexpected movement.

Finally looking up at the man she is being traded off to, she can feel her heartbeat stop in her chest. Her gaze travels all over him, taking him in, his arms and legs are splayed out on this throne and she can’t help but be captivated by his presence— his strong sense of power and confidence that practically rolls off of him— she’s drawn to it, in ways she’d rather not admit too. 

He’s dressed for a fight— or maybe that’s how they always dress here, she isn’t sure. Coming out of the sides of his helmet are the tusks of a mythosaur and on his back is a great fur cape, making him look like some kind of ferocious beast ready to devour her whole. He’s holding a weapon—a spear, in his right hand, and at the noise she makes, his grip tightens ever so slightly around it.

“You see,” The Elder took a step forward placing Shayr’la in front of them. The feeling of being exposed and watched is ever more present, not only from the man sitting in front of her but from the warriors surrounding them in the hall as well. Even though she could not see his face, she could feel his hard gaze as it drifts up and down her body, taking in the way her dress clings to her, he leaves a fiery trail with his gaze ~~one that he could follow later, if she allowed.~~ “Her hips—”

“Uur.”

Stopping the Elder before they could say something truly embarrassing, the Mand’alor stands and makes his way towards her, his helmet never leaving her person. Shayr’la was mesmerized by him, by his movement, by his confidence. He wasn’t much taller than she was but the way he held himself and he walked with purpose and power, made him seem like a giant. And that power only came from leading— From leading and fighting and taking what he needed and what he wanted, and no one surviving the wrath he brought with him.

He approaches her, taking a slow turn around her, taking in the way her white dress clings to the curves of her body, only to be slightly covered by the shawl she’s wearing on top, it was as if a hunter was stalking his prey, slow and meticulous, he was studying her— judging her— exposing her. Whether he was pleased or not they could not tell.

As he came back around, stopping in front of her, Shayr’la could see several necklaces lay across his armored chest. One held a pendent of a Mythosaur, another looked to have several teeth hanging from it, and the last one was simply a few beads knotted in sections but at the base of it was a large green bead. 

“Ba’slanar.” Despite the modulation from the helmet, his voice is rich and deep. He sounds nothing like she expected, but then again she didn’t know what to expect from him. 

The Elder continues to stand behind her, unsure of what was said or what to do.

“Ba’slanar.” He growled out, hand tightening on the spear.

The guard, who escorted the two of them to the room, stepped forward, grabbed ahold of the Elder's arm, and led them back out to the hallway. She could make out the beginning of a question from the Elder as they left, “Is he satisfied? He will still uphold—” From there Shayr’la doesn’t know where they’ve gone too, she just hopes she never has to see the Elder again. Or at least not for a very long time. 

The sound of the door closing startles her out of her study of the Mand’alor. Flustered at being caught staring, she closes her eyes and tries to steady herself for when, if, she is addressed. 

With her eyes closed she doesn’t see how the Mand’alor takes a step closer, still not touching her but she could feel his body heat radiating off of him. She doesn’t see how his hand comes up to almost touch— almost trace up the slope of her throat leading into the curve of her jaw. And she especially doesn't see how he takes in as much detail as he can. He’s drinking her in— like a man dying of thirst in the sands and she is his only oasis.

The soft feel of his leather gloves traces over her cheek down to her chin, where he tilts her head up to face him. The gentleness of it causes Shayr’la to stutter in her breath, and yet she still can’t bring herself to open her eyes. She feels unable to face the man behind the helmet. 

Unable to face her future.

“Haa’tavlir sha ni.” She doesn’t know what he’s asking. But even so it’s not that hard to infer what he is saying, and she knows. Taking a deep breath, she finally glances up at the man who is to be her future husband. Who is to be her leader and her savior, regardless if she wanted him to be or not.

“I… I don’t understand. I’m— I’m sorry.” Stumbling over her words she sees his head tilt to the side, studying her. His grip is still steadily holding her chin.

“This is your home now Ka’ra,” _Ka’ra? What—what is that? Me?_ “Do not wander for you are safe here. But, do not get in the way.” With his statement, he lets go of her chin, gives her a small tilt of his helmet to which she assumes is a nod, and he walks out of the room. 

———

Shayr’la has been with the clan for at least two months and she can count on one hand how many times she’s actually spoken with Mand’alor Vizsla. It wasn’t that the two of them hadn't seen each other, hadn’t been in the same room, hadn’t run into each other when she would wander around the place. It was more that he never spoke when they did. Ever. Or to hardly anyone. And when he did it was always in short sentences direct and to the point. 

The first time he had spoken to her, only a week after the initial arrival, Shayr’la was in the story hall studying the paintings on the walls— papers, and books, and data packs covering the floor around her. She wanted to understand the conquering, and the history of the Mandalorian people, she wanted to write it all down and help pass it along to the next generation. She wanted to know about the people she would eventually help lead.

Maybe one day.

She was so deep into her translations and her work, that when the Mand’alor spoke up from behind her she let out a small yelp in surprise, “Ka’ra,” his voice raspy and harsh coming from behind the helmet, “I have sent a squadron to help protect your planet. They will arrive there shortly and speak with the Elders.” 

Shayr’la looked up to him from her spot on the floor, he stood tall over her, hands clasped behind his back, “Thank you,” she replied softly to him. With a quick nod of his helmet, he turned and began to walk away, but as she watched him leave, he only managed to go a few steps before stopping and he quietly asked, “May I sit here with you?”

“Yes.”

———

He hadn’t come back to sit with her in the story hall since that first week and Shayr’la couldn’t tell if she was happy or upset by it. But the more she pondered it the more it kept creeping up into her mind throughout the days, and that alone was making her go mad. 

Today she had planned on getting lost in one of the many battles depicted on the walls. The image of the Manda’lor wielding a giant gun, cocked at his hips, both hands gripping it tightly while taking out an entire group of empire troopers on the tops of buildings. She was looking forward to finally getting to record the story down on paper. It is an impressive painting and she's sure it’s an even more impressive story. 

_Does he not want to get to know me?_

Stop thinking about it.

_Do I even want to get to know him?_

Stop it.

Shayr’la is so lost in her own thoughts of the Mand’alor that she doesn’t realize she’s completely walked past her destination and instead has ended up walking to the entrance to one of the outdoor training yards.

The sounds of clashing and shouts draw her attention to the several mandalorians that are locked in an intense fight in the middle of the yard. 

As she moves into the courtyard, a small breeze sweeps through the area, ruffling her curls and the edges of her dress, causing her to clutch tighter to her data pack held close to her chest. She moves against one of the walls lined with various weapons, recognizing some and not others, but she quickly turns her attention back to the four mandalorians sparring. 

There is a single mandalorian in the middle of the group, it looks as if they are losing ground and are being pinned down by the others. But with a movement too fast for Shayr’la to see, they swipe the feet out of one mandalorian, putting them flat on their back— dust billowing out from around them. Pushing out against the other two, you realize the mandalorian in the center is Manda’lor Vizsla.

He grips onto one of his still standing opponents, swiping his forearm across their masked face, knocking them back and down a few paces. He turns quickly towards the others still standing, with a punch to the gut they stumble over giving him the opportunity to kick them hard in their sternum, knocking them onto their back, the mandalorian lets out a groan when their helmet bounces against the ground.

Shayr’la has never seen someone move so effencently and with such precision that she finds herself mesmerized by him. Her eyes follow his smooth movements and transitions as he continues fighting. 

It’s beautiful and utterly breathtaking to watch him. The Mand’alor looks as if he was born to do this with how he moves through the air. 

Born to fight.

Born to conquer.

Born to lead.

_Do I want to get to know him?_

Y— No.

One of the mandalorians lands a heavy blow with a spear against the back of the Mand’alor and as he topples over face first into the ground Shayr’la lets out a noise of concern. He lets out a faint curse she barely hears, but when he lifts his helmet she can tell they’ve locked eyes from the way he freezes. 

They both freeze— is she even allowed to be here? 

“Brokar gar,” the mandalorian who had hit him with the spear spoke up, holding the spear at the back of his helmet. Panting from the excursion of the fight and beginning to relax at the thought of being finished and the victor. The other two stepping back afraid of what will happen.

If Shayr’la hadn’t already been staring at the Mand’alor then she would have missed what happened next. He grabs the spear, yanking hard, throwing the mandalorian off balance causing them to fall. With the momentum of the fall, they switch positions, the Mand’alor flips him over onto his back, placing his knee firmly onto his chest and with a spin of the spear he then points it at the fumbling mandalorian beneath him.

“Yield.” He doesn’t even sound out of breath when he speaks. 

“Yield.”

The Mand’alor removes his knee and throws the spear to the ground, giving a hand he pulls the mandalorian up to his feet, “Jate,” he nods in dismissal. By the time he looks back over to the wall where she was standing he sees she’s gone. Looking around quickly, still not seeing her, he walks through the archway to see if he can see where she wandered off too.

_There._ She’s walking back towards the story hall, her shawl billowing out behind her, the colors and patterns mesmerizing as the sun catches it through the passing windows. As if she can feel his watchful stare she comes to a slow stop, half turning around, bright sun falling on her, and he finds himself thinking he likes the way her brown skin seems to glow and appear soft to the touch.

_He would like to find out._

Shayr’la feels her face heat up under his intense observation, but before it becomes too unbearable, she sees him give a slight nod and take a few steps back into the courtyard.

But she hasn’t moved yet.

And he knows.

And he hasn’t either.

They don’t know what to make of each other.

Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uur - silence  
> Ba’slanar - leave  
> Haa’taylir sha ni - look at me  
> Ka’ra - stars  
> Brokar gar - beat you  
> Jate - good


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shayr’la spends some time with the children that visit the palace and she tells them a story. She has a talk with the Mand’alor about certain upcoming events.

**THREE MONTHS SINCE ARRIVAL**

**TWO WEEKS AFTER WITNESSING FIGHT**

_ How do you explain to a group of children that you did not choose to come here? That you were forced to come here. Expected to marry and fuck and bear their leaders’ children. And all of it wasn’t any of your choice. _

_ You don’t. _

———

“Did he really fall off a blurrg?”

“Who cares about that!”

“Weren’t you paying attention? He kyr'amur a mudhorn— with just a vibroblade!”

The room she is in with the children today has vast open windows that look out to one of the gardens, the paths that she can see twist to and fro and lead to a fountain in the center. All throughout the garden, and the palace, there are plants both known and unknown to her. She realizes it’s just another thing she needs to learn about her people. 

_ I don’t even know if I can turn to him for help. _

“Alor?” A small voice comes from behind Shayr’la’s place in the center of today's group of children, and as she turns she finds the source of the voice. Little Eilana is probably the youngest in the group, by at least a few years, and she has still yet to take the creed. So when she looks up, Shayr’la only sees her big curious brown eyes staring back at her, and just like that she feels her defenses break down just a little. “Alor, will you tell us how you came here?” 

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that. 

They had asked a few times in the beginning, when she first started telling them the stories of their own people. But most of the children knew not to ask her anymore, they would see the somber look in her eyes when they did. 

Shayr’la bends down, making herself eye level with Eilana, and reaches out to brush some of the wild curls, that look so much like her own out of the child’s face. 

“Eilana!” her brother exclaims from behind her, “You can't ask that!”

“It’s alright Myn, she can ask.” Shayr’la stands up from her crouched position and holds her hand out for Eliana to take and she eagerly does. They walk over to one of the open windows that face out into the gardens.

“I come from a planet called Cela, we—” Shayr’la pauses when she realizes her mistake. 

_ Those aren’t my people anymore.  _

She looks up at the many helmets that surround her; their faces are hidden but they are still young enough to where they still allow their hearts to be shown. Shayr’la sits down at the sill, Eilana sits next to her and gives her hand a squeeze, trying to get her attention back to the other children now sitting around her feet—  _ These people are.  _ Shayr’la looks down to her, blinking away the few tears that managed to come to her eyes, giving her a smile she continues, “I mean,  _ they _ are a peaceful planet.” 

“Deep inside the planet's core, there is a mineral that is extremely rare elsewhere in the galaxy. So naturally, the people there decided to mine it, and farm it, and sell it. The family I come from was one of the original sets of Elders, they’re sort of in control of the planet—”

“Like Mand’alor Vizsla is here?” one of the children asks. 

“Yes… and no, it’s kind of like that. Except my— I mean, they’re a group and not just one person.”

“A little over a year ago, maybe even two, some remnants of the old Empire, rogue Imperials, decided that the planet would be perfect for pillaging.” Shayr’la looks around at the children, they’re all so young, they’ve never had to know those hardships of when the Empire was around— she hopes they never will. “They came with battleships ready to destroy us if we didn’t comply with what they wanted.” 

“Vaii rucuyir verda?” Myn asks from his seat on the floor, his helmet fixed eagerly on Shayr’la’s face.

“Verda? Warriors?” He nods his head. “The people there are not fighters like you all. They are miners, and farmers, and traders. Though we did try to fight,” a few tears rise to her eyes at the memory of those lost, “It didn’t help.”

“So we compiled. And at first, it was fine; we compromised with them. We gave them a quarter of what we mined every two weeks. But then they weren’t satisfied. And they took more.”

“And  _ more _ .”

“ _ And more _ .” her voice cracks at her words. Lost in the memory Shayr’la doesn’t notice she’s gained another listener in the archway. Mand’alor Vizsla leans on the doorway, arms crossed against his chest, listening to her tell the children her story. 

She takes a deep breath in, remembering that harrowing day when the Imps finally showed up to the Elders. She could still hear the screams and blasterfire when they charged through the doors— “They eventually made their way to where we were hiding, forcing their way through what was left of our security. When they— when they got to us we tried bargaining, but they didn’t care.”

Should couldn’t bear to tell them what they bargained with. They didn’t need to know. 

“They wanted the planet, they wanted the minerals, and they wanted control. So they took it.” A small gasp comes from the children, growing up around fierce warriors you can tell it still shocks them to hear not everyone can or is able to fight back.

“We aren’t fighters like you all here. We couldn’t hold them back anymore. We gave them everything we had. And then they left, or so we thought. We were allowed two months to recover before they sent another platoon back. Much smaller than the first time they showed up. They said it was to ‘get us ready for more troopers’.” Shayr’la takes a shuddering breath in, eyes seeming to come back into focus. Looking around at the children, she's captured their undivided attention with her story. It gives her some small joy to know that they are listening so intently.

“We were able to send a message out to your people before they showed up. We asked for help,”  _ Asking for a trade that she was not aware of. _ “And your Mand’alor answered.” 

“We were— _They_ are very grateful for his help.”

“But Alor, how— why are  _ you  _ here?” Eilana looks up to her and Shayr’la is at a loss for words.

Does she tell them? Does she tell them she didn’t want to come here? That she didn’t have a choice in the matter. But before she could answer them a deep modulated voice breaks through her thoughts.

“She came here because I asked. I asked her if she would like to live here with us.”

All the helmets turn suddenly towards the voice, “Alor! Mand’alor!” The children get up and run towards him, quickly surrounding him as he pushes off the archway and takes a few steps into the room.

“Mand’alor, gar ru'tionir kaysh at K'olar?”

“Did you really kill a mudhorn with just a vibroblade?”

“Alor said you fell off a blurrg!”

She can see from the way his back stiffens that he wasn’t expecting the onslaught of questions from them. Shayr’la stands, Eilana’s hand still wrapped in her own, and walks over to where the children are bombarding him with questions. The sight of this strong, menacing, figure of a man completely frozen by the questions of children brings a small smile to Shayr’la’s face. 

She watches them bounce up and down trying to get his attention and when she looks up to him, her smile still gracing her face he feels his heart drop. He luckily decided to don his vest so she was unable to watch the flush that cascades down his face spread across his chest. 

He watches how her eyes light up with the questions as the children ask in a mix of basic and mando’a, “Well Mand’alor Vizsla?” With a cock of her eyebrow, he feels pinned down by her stare. “Did you fall off the blurrg?” she asks a little too pointedly for being around children.

_ She’s going to be trouble. _

———

After the children have finished with their questions, they rush out of the room running down to the training courtyard, leaving the Mand’alor and Shayr’la alone staring at each other. Her eyes trail down and across his body shamelessly, taking in the way his leather vest clings to his chest, how the leather straps that wrap around his biceps seem to be trying to burst with his arms crossed. His golden skin looks soft to the touch and beautiful with the sun shining on it from the open window. She thinks to herself she wouldn’t mind ghosting her fingertips along them to see if he is as soft as he looks. His helmet is different; she’s noticed he doesn’t always wear the one with the tusks, that one seems to be only for when outsiders are coming.

She thinks she likes this one.

She likes what she sees when she looks at him.

Sh—

“Myn,” he yells out to the child and they stop in their tracks, “Rejorhaa'ir Paz ni kelir dar cuyir ogir.” 

“Elek Jatne vod,” Myn answers back before running to catch up to the rest of the children. 

She doesn’t know that the Mand’alor’s gaze hasn’t left her. His helmet unmoving, but when she gives him a sly smirk, the one she was wearing just before, the cock of his helmet has her laughing. 

And he’s never heard anything so lovely.

He’s lucky for the helmet, it hides the way he admires her. 

Has been admiring her. For awhile.

The way she talks with the children. She indulges in the silliness that the younger ones still cling too, and still teaches them the history of their own people.

He can’t help imagining her with their own children, the thought of it surprising him. When he saw her with little Eilana, their similarities so obvious, it made him think things he had no right to think about.

_ At least at the present time. _

“You’re good with them.” he pushes off of the doorway as he speaks, coming to stand in front of her. Before she can respond he holds an arm out for her to take.

“Will you walk with me, Ka’ra?” his voice gentle— soft, in his asking. She wraps her hand around his offered arm and the warmth from his body sends a shiver down her own. They step out into the gardens walking along the paths covered in green and the blooming flowers of the season.

They’re both quiet, knowing they need to talk about things between them.

Things that are expected. 

Things that haven’t been discussed yet.

But neither is eager to begin so they walk along the stone path— flowers and vines and bushes decorating their walk, providing a perfect distraction. Shayr’la recognizes most of them, but there are some that seem to be native to this planet that she doesn’t know yet. She’ll have to ask about them someday; she has so much she wants to know.

About her people.

Her home.

The Mand’alor makes a noise muffled and modulated by the helmet like something is caught in his throat, “How— how have you been faring so far?” She would think he sounds nervous if she knew him better. But she doesn’t. 

Not yet.

She doesn’t notice how he’s watching her, his eyes following up from where her arm is wrapped around his, the softness of her skin against his own makes him feel things he doesn’t have words for. He’s mesmerized by her; her face, her hair, her smile, her eyes.

_ Oh _ — “I’ve...” Shayr’la pauses, “I’ve been enjoying my time. I’ve been able to record a lot of the clan's history.” She turns to him, brown eyes bright with enthusiasm as she starts talking about the battles and the stories she’s written down and which ones have been her favorite to talk about with the kids.

“Well the children seem to really love listening to them,” she pauses in their walk, letting go of his arm to bend down to smell one of the many yellow flowers she recognizes, it’s a sun-dew flower, “Ever since they stumbled upon me a few weeks ago they come by almost every day. They really are so very smart— Oh! They’re helping me with my mando’a as well!” She exclaims spinning around to face him again, her smile radiant with the thought. If Shayr’la could see under his dark visor she would see the small smile he gives her in return. A smile for her happiness and her willingness to learn about her new home. A smile just for her.

“And this place, your palace is just so beautiful, you have a— well, um, I mean, we have a lovely home.” Heat rises to her cheeks as she turns away from him, trying to hide some of her embarrassment. She walks to another plant a little further along the path, this one a trailing vine with small pink flowering buds, she doesn’t recognize this one nor the purple flowers that are scattered at the bottom of the vines.

“I— it’s very beautiful here. The gardens, the palace, just—” her voice trails off, she’s still unused to the fact that this is her home. That this place, this palace, with its vast halls, leading to the throne room and to the story halls; to the training fields and the gardens, is now her  _ home _ as well. It’s been a lot to take in alone for the last three months, but she’s managed, somehow. 

“I feel— I mean, I get lost sometimes.” Shayr’la whispers, whether she means mentally or physically he doesn’t know but the Mand’alor feels the sting of her words regardless. 

He’s better than that and he feels ashamed for making her feel like that. His riduur shouldn’t feel like that in her own home. She is safe here.  _ Doesn’t she know that? _

“Do you know what this plant is called Ka’ra?” Coming to rest beside her he drops down to his haunches reaching out to rub one of the purple petals between his fingertips. “They’re called Kibo, their native home is the green planet Yavin 4.” Shayr’la crouches down beside him, reaching out to touch one, the petal smooth and velvet-like to the touch. “But like so many other plants here in the gardens they came here unwilling— some unwanted at home. But not once they got here, once here they took root, with support, and love, and attention, they thrived.”

“They are very pretty” she’s studying the way the white veins blend in with the purple, making the flower look lavender in color so she misses the way his helmet stays transfixed on her face. She barely hears the  _ mesh’la _ whispered out, crackling in the modulated voice.

“Ka’ra, I am— I am sorry for… for not helping you.” The sincerity isn’t lost in his soft voice, “For not being here for you.” 

Shayr’la looks over at him and she can feel his piercing stare even through the black tint of the visor. It’s intense and charged and it’s like he’s ripping her apart brick by brick and analyzing everything he finds along the way. And yet he's not destroying what he finds. He sees it, and he holds it, and he gently puts her back together.

He stands, slowly, not looking away from her and holds out a hand for her to take. He’s tall, towering over her, blocking out the sun and surrounded in a halo of light. Despite the imposing figure he cuts, she hasn’t ever felt scared of him. Intrigued? Yes. Mesmerized? Yes. Slightly intimidated? Of course, he is a clan leader for a reason. But truly frightened? No. 

So she looks at his outstretched palm— open, inviting, warm. 

And she takes it.

“What do you know of our holidays, Ka’ra?”

“I’ve seen a few depicted in the halls but I haven’t gotten to them yet.”

Not letting go of her hand, he leads them to one of the benches surrounding the center fountain. There are large bushes with blooming red and orange flowers spreading between the benches that go around the fountain. Their scent, sweet and heady, permeates the air around them, Shayr’la wonders if their scent makes its way underneath the helmeted warrior beside her, or if she’s one of the few who truly smell the flowers that surround them.

“Jor’adir be nuhur is a day of celebration, cuun adate will have the option to not wear their beskar’gam if they do not to want to and there will be no repercussions.” The Mand’alor explains, “We spend the day preparing for the eparavur bal tracyn, the feast and fire. This one though— things will be expected of us I’m afraid.”

“O-okay.” Shayr’la hesitates to think of what they could want. Of what he could want.  _ What did he expect? _ “What kind of things?” She unconsciously tightens her grip on his hand.

Neither of them have noticed the other never actually let go.

“We will be expected to perform our riduurok in private, and perform a redalur together at the feast to show our union.”

“Some of cuun adate might ask more of us. But if you are not comfortable with it, it will not happen, I assure you.” He says with a nod. It’s a comfort to know that he won’t push, won’t force her to do what she doesn’t want, regardless of what the people want. 

“When is it?” she asks.

“In a month.” he answers.

Accepting her fate once again she stands with their hands still clasped together and the sun at her back, a halo shines around her curls that bounce as she looks back to him, a smile gracing her face, “I guess we better spend more time together then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vain rucuyir verda? - Where were the warriors?   
>  Gar ru'tionir kaysh at K'olar? - You asked her to come here?   
>  Rejorhaa'ir Paz ni kelir dar cuyir ogir - Tell Paz I will no longer be there. Elek Jatne vod - Yes sir.   
>  Jor’adir be nuhur - Celebration of good times   
>  cuun adate - our people eparavur bal tracyn - feast and fire   
>  riduurok - marriage agreement   
>  redalur - dance   
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shayr’la learns something about the deal she was apart of. she has a much needed breakdown and paz is kind of an asshole. oh the armorer calls mando a dummy

**_Does she know?_ **

**_No._ **

———

“Orron sent this back this morning.” Paz pulls up the message on the holoprojector and a blue-tinted Mandalorian pops up and says the Imperials are gone from Cela and that they have finally settled down into the city. The message then fades away, “Said they ran off the rest of the troops. Some were apparently hiding out in one of the abandoned mines. The Imps didn’t stand a chance.”

“Do they require more numbers?”

Unbeknownst to the two Mandalorians in the room, Shayr’la stands just outside the door, hand poised to knock, but unable to commit. She knows she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but they are talking about her people. Why are they talking about her people?

_ No... not my people anymore. _

“Doesn’t look like it.” Paz turns off the message, handing it over to the Mand’alor, then continues, “Orron and the others are settling in just fine. Her Elders are taking care of everything.”

_ The Elders? What about them? _

The Mand’alor hums in acknowledgment while placing the puck away in a container on the back shelf. The Mand’alor can feel the tension in the room. he knows Paz wants to say more; he always wants to say more, ever the challenger. But he doesn’t turn back to him. He’ll wait him out like he always does. It only takes a minute longer before Paz finally cracks and asks, “Did— did they really just give her away?” 

_ Fuck. _

Shayr’la’s hand goes to her mouth in shock and she hopes her quick inhale at his question goes unnoticed by the two Mandalorians inside. She doesn’t know how she would explain away her standing outside the door eavesdropping on them. 

He should have known he would bring it up eventually. Though he is surprised it took him three months after her initial arrival before he commented. The man has never been one to have patience.

The Mand’alor exhales in resignation and turns to face his friend. “Yes.” He's not happy with how they propositioned her to him, how they just offered her up to a stranger and expected her to fulfill a role she never asked for. “Their reasoning was that they could get protection and I could get an heir— eventually.” 

“That’s not… She doesn’t belong here. She isn’t one of us.” Paz spits out, “She doesn’t want to be and you know it.”  _ Did she not want to be here? Was he so blind that he couldn’t see that?  _ He knew Paz wasn’t in favor of her being here, the man has always been more traditional than him. But hearing him say it with such conviction and spite? It made the Mand’alor become defensive. 

_ How could he say such a thing? How could he think sometime like that? _

“Do not speak of her like that.” Rage has set in his shoulders and the Mand’alor stalks along the length of the table to stand toe-to-toe with the questioning Mandalorian. “She did not choose this but she will be my wife and you will respect her.

“ _ This is the way _ .” 

The gruff acknowledgment from the Mandalorian is enough for the Mand’alor to continue, though what he says next does nothing to calm the anger that he feels. If anything it adds to it; adds to his growing hatred towards her peoples’ Elders.

He walks down the length of the table towards the door, unable to control his pacing before continuing. he bites the words out, venom laced with every syllable that passes his lips, “We weren’t the only ones she was offered too.” When he was first told that her Elders had tried to trade her off to the Imperials he was furious. How could her very own people be alright with handing her over to those kinds of people?  _ But then again they just did it again by giving her to me. _

_ Does that make us just as bad as the Imps? _

Shayr’la leans against the door trying hard not to make a sound.  _ Her Elders were going to give her away to someone else? _ Confusion and hurt well up inside her,  _ They wouldn’t have done that. Well… yes they would have.  _

_ They did. _

“They tried to make a deal? With the Imps?” 

A sound of shock and protest slips out from her lips. She catches herself, but the sting of hearing it hurts. How could they do that? How could they willingly give one of their own away to the leftover Empire?  _ They gave me away to the Mandalorians. _ Did they really not care?  _ Am I really so surprised? _ They were her family.  _ And now the Mandalorians are. _

_ Are they? _

Paz has heard stories of people trying to bargain their way out of dealings with the Imperials but they never end well for the offering party. Almost always ending in blaster fire and carnage and death.

“Yes.” His shoulders hang heavy with his reply, the weight of what almost could have happened. 

“Shit.” Almost rendered speechless, Paz shakes his head in disbelief. “She’s lucky they didn’t accept.” The Mand’alor just nods in acknowledgment. “That would have been hell for her.”

“Yes… yes it would have.” Even though she is with him now, the thought of her ever being taken by the Empire makes his blood boil and rage flow through him. He's come to realize he would do almost anything for her.  And that fact almost scares him how fast he is falling. _ No, it’s because she will be my wife. My riduur. _

The silence that follows is almost deafening. Shayr’la hadn’t realized how much the Mand’alor had known. How much the Elders had told him. How much they hadn’t told her. Had she always just been a bargaining tool to them? Was that all she was? Growing up was she really just unwittingly waiting to be traded away to the highest bidder? 

She doesn’t realize how long she’s been standing there, the silence surrounding her, swallowing her, making her retreat into her own thoughts. 

Scared to come back, scared to go deeper.

_ Why didn’t they tell me? Would I really want to know? Does it even matter now?  _

**_No._ **

In a distant voice she hears him, but neither his words nor himself register to her. “He’s gone,” the Mand’alor says, “you can come in now.”

Barely drawn out of her thoughts, Shayr’la sees that the very doors she was standing in front of are now open and there standing before her is her soon to be husband. “Ka’ra? Are you alright?” he asks timidly, scared to startle her but wanting to help.

_ He’s... concerned? _

She looks up to him, staring him down through the T of his visor, pinning him in place. “They— they really didn’t care did they?” Her voice cracks with the question, the pain of not being wanted bubbling up, threatening to overflow. “I guess I’ve always known, but t-to hear it,” she takes a shuddering inhale,  _ she’s going to crack _ , “—to not even hear it from them,” Shayr’la steps forward, her eyes are glazed over, unfocused, tears ready to spill, “From… from my Elders, I thought they were my people, m-my family.”

He doesn’t know what to do, does he reach out to her? Grasp her shoulders and pull her in close to him? Wrap her up in his tight embrace and let her crumble like he knows she wants to? Like she  _ needs _ to.

Or does he wait? Wait for her to come to him. He doesn’t know, he can’t decide. So he stands frozen while he watches his soon to be wife fall apart in front of him and he feels his heart break a little bit at her pain.

“I just wanted to help the kids, Mand’alor.” Shayr’la looks at him, he’s unmoving, seemingly unfazed by what’s happening, and he must be, surely he must be.  _ Why would he care? _ “That’s all. I-I wanted to teach them about their people about where they came from, and— and, that they can do better.” She brings her arms up across her chest, trying to fold into herself, “That they can be better than those that came before them.” 

Her knees buckle beneath her and before she could tumble to the ground, before she is swallowed up in her grief, and pain, and loneliness— the Mand’alor catches her, wrapping her up in his arms and slowly settling them both on the floor.

She’s trembling in his arms, the tears finally falling from her eyes, “They just used me. They were  _ always _ going to use me.” Shayr’la pulls him in closer, her fingers curling into the front of his vest and tucking herself into the crook of his neck. Numb to the way his helmet digs into the side of her head as she just tries to cling onto the only support she finds. Him.

“How could I have been so s-stupid?” She takes a shuttering inhale against his neck, finding her voice in her anger as her tears fall down her face, “Do they care? Did they care about anything other than that stupid rock?” 

He doesn’t know how to respond,  _ Does he respond? _

“Mand’alor, please— please,” She doesn’t know what she is begging for, but she is. She wants to curl into him, finding comfort in his arms, something she didn’t think would happen. Ever. And yet here she is. Asking him to answer a question she doesn’t know she wants an answer to. 

Will he answer?

“You know I can't answer that.” The Mand’alor wraps his arms tighter around his soon to be wife, she's breaking down and he  wants to, needs to help her. “Ka’ra do you want me to answer that? Do you want the truth?” Does she want to know that her Elders gave her away for protection of their planet and they didn’t care who she went to. “Do you want me to tell you that they were willing to trade you away to those Imps? To their sleazy generals and crooked leaders? Because I will.” He’s getting angry now. Well, angrier, the way he spits out the words leaving him vibrating with hatred. “They were so willing to help themselves that they were going to give you away to whoever helped them. Regardless of who it was.”

He rubs up and down her back, attempting to calm her, but after his rant it just seems to make her cry harder. She's tucked in tight in the crook of his neck, he knows the lip of his helmet must be bothering her, “Ka’ra, come— look at me.” He tries to maneuver her into sitting up, she’s reluctant at first but he gets her to sit up, she still clings to his vest. 

“Yes, they  _ did _ trade you to us.  _ To me. _ ” Shayr’la stares him down, unknowingly making direct eye contact with him,  _ how does she always seem to see me? _ “They believed they were trading you to a selfish killer, who would only want you—” he takes a shaky inhale, the noise crackling through his helmet. He hadn’t realized how much her Elder's reasoning had affected him until now. Was it because he had started to have feelings for her? “Because you could bear me children. They were hoping I would mold you into something you are not.”

She can’t seem to catch her breath, every inhale feels like a stab to her lungs, her tears run down her cheeks, staining them with the pain she feels. She finds herself looking back down to where her hands are curled into his vest. She pulled the leather taught and she feels her finger cramping up from how hard they are wrapped around the material but she can’t find it in her to let go or care. “But, Ka’ra, that’s— that’s not what I am or what I want from you.” The Mand’alor’s hands slides up her arm, the leather of his gloves soft against her skin. He grips onto her jaw, gently enough not to scare her, but firmly enough to direct her to look at him. “I just want you to be happy and safe. Here. With  _ me… _ if you wanted.”

“Can I ask— can I ask you a question?” His voice a whisper, almost not caught by his modulator, but it is. He wipes away a tear that falls down her cheek, she’s calming down in his arms, her breathing still staggered but growing more steady with every breath. She gives him a small nod, not trusting her voice.

“Are you happy? Or, I mean, do you think you could be happy? Here?”  _ With me? _ “With my people?” He hesitates in asking her, scared of what she might say. If she would reject him. Reject the tribe and grow to resent them. He wants to know but he doesn’t want to scare her anymore. She’s already been hurt by so many close to her

Shayr’la takes a shaky inhale before she answers and loosens her grip on his vest, rubbing her fingers over top the worn leather, she straightens out the wrinkles she left behind. Her hand pauses when she moves over top his heart, feeling how fast it beats against her palm.  _ Is he nervous?  _ She looks into the T of his visor almost wanting to see his eyes, if just to read the emotion that flits across them.  _ Has he always been this close?  _

“I— I think I could be happy here, with your people.” _With_ _you_. 

“Yes.” He smiles at her answer, though she can not see it he smiles.

He wipes away the leftover tears with a swipe of his glove and holds her head in his hands. With a slow and steady movement he gently rests his helmet against her forehead, “ _ Thank you Ka’ra. _ ”

———

The forge is located just off to the side of the entrance courtyard, where it’s still easily accessible to everyone in the town and the palace. The one thing that always catches everyone’s eye as they walk up is the giant mythosaur, the Mand’alor is no exception. 

His helmet is trained straight ahead but his eyes stare up at the skull as he walks into the forge. He can hear hammering before he walks in, the Armorer must be working on a new set of suits. As he enters there are two figures inside. One in the far corner looks to be Tamet, the Armorer’s apprentice, they look up from their work, noticing it is the Mand’alor they give a small bow and quickly go back to work.

The Armorer continues her craft as the Mand’alor takes a seat at the table in front of the furnace. Not looking up from her tools she asks, “Mand’alor, what can I do for you?”

He doesn’t answer her right away, trying to collect himself he watches her. She is currently melting down unused beskar to be reforged into other uses, her hammer banging away. No metal goes to waste in the tribe.

_ This is the way.  _

He knows he’s stalling, not necessarily afraid of what he has to ask, but more embarrassed. He had given up on this a long time ago. On this hope for happiness, for a family, for  _ love _ . So to be in front of the Armorer and ask for help in this matter he freezes. His question gets lodged deep in the back of his throat. He can feel it churning, rising up, wanting to break free— trying to break free. But he can’t get it out. Why not? What’s wrong?

The sound of Armorer's hammer hitting the metals gives him a steady rhythm to get lost in, “Have you come because of your riduur, bal gar redalur?”

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

“Did you not think you would get this?”

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

“You should know better.”

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

“I was not expecting it,” The Mand’alor replies, “No.”

The Armorer stops her hammering and inspects her work, the beskar will be worn proudly by some of the younger members of the tribe. Finding herself pleased she moves to sit in front of him, Tamet continuing their work behind the two Mandalorians.

“Then you, Mand’alor, are a di’kut.” 

Tamet stops mid swing, shocked by what the Armorer has called their leader. 

_ Can, can she do that? _

The silence feels like it drags on forever with neither of the older Mandalorians saying anything. Tamet doesn’t know what to expect, but what the Mand’alor says next is not it.

“I  _ know _ .”

“Then what do you propose you do about it?”

———

Shayr’la stands over her makeshift desk in one of the battle story halls, leaning over the table she is looking for one of the notes she had written down the other day, “Blue… Ke-kebiin, where is it?” Shuffling around some of the papers and data packs she has collected, one that is precariously close to the edge, falls off the table and before she can even attempt to catch it a large gloved hand reaches out and grabs it. 

Startled by suddenly not being alone anymore, she looks up and there is Paz, she hadn’t realized how big he is until just now, having only met him a couple of times while watching the Mand’alor train. He stands taller than the Mand’alor, bigger too, and he has an air of arrogance that he carries with him every time she’s sees him.

He doesn’t hand her the tablet right away, instead he looks down at it and starts swiping through some of the notes she has made.

“C-can I have that back?” Shayr’la asks, hesitating, not scared, but confused as to why he’s here, why he’s looking through her notes.

“You spelled  _ kyr'tsad _ wrong.” He looks back up to her, helmet tilting to the side in study of her.

_ They all do that, I wonder if they realize it. _

The Mandalorian steps to her, his large form looming over her body, he hands her back the pack and as she tugs on it he doesn’t let go. Shayr’la looks up to him, question poised on her lips but before she can speak, he does instead, “Mand’alor Vizsla is in the throne room.” His hand falls from the data pack, “He is asking for you.”

She clutches the tablet to her chest, half afraid of being so close to him and half because she doesn’t know how to react to his intimidation, “Oh, okay, thank you Paz.” He gives her a nod in acknowledgment and turns to leave the room.

Shayr’la ruffles though some of the papers left on the desk, organizing them for when she comes back later.

Paz doesn’t get very far before he speaks up, seemingly unable to hold in his question, “Why do you do this?” His head is turned slightly as he stands in the doorway

“Do what?” Shayr’la looks over her shoulder to him, seeing he hasn’t turned to face her she continues to clean up her papers.  _ If he can talk to me with his back turned then so can I. _

“Why do you write our stories down?”

That question causes her to pause in her clean up.  _ Why? _ “Because it's what I did on my planet. For my people.” She turns around to look at him, a few papers still clasped in her hands, confused by his questioning and where he might be going with his inquiries, “Why would I not do it for the Mand’alor’s as well?”

The gravelly hum comes out almost broken through his helmet, “Why do you still do that?”

“What?” Paz turns at her question, frustration growing up around him, building to a height he might regret later but now, right now he didn’t care.

“You  _ still _ call them your people.” He spits out, “You  _ still _ acknowledge them, when they did nothing to warrant your trust or your love. They  _ tossed _ you aside like you meant  _ nothing _ to them. You  _ mean _ nothing to them.” He’s too far to see the tears that fall down her face, that have slowly begun falling down her face, if he would maybe he would have stopped his tirade. But he didn’t, so he doesn’t.

“Do you think,” he storms up to her, his anger rolling off of his body, filling the room, “If you were to go back right now, back to that planet, with those awful people, that they would still care for you? That they would take you in.” She can’t meet his visor, whether from the tears in her eyes or from unknowing shame and fear. 

“Did they not give you to us? To us who have taken you in like our own.” “Who the foundlings already call you our own, I’ve heard them, they call you Alor for a reason. And yet you do not call them your people, your droten, your aliit,” His gloved hand carefully comes to her chin, tilting it up towards his face, “Do you not care for them? Could you not care for us?” His questioning hurts, because of course she could. 

She does.

_ Right? _

“I— I do care for the children, the foundlings, and do care fo-”  _ For the Mand’alor. _ “For them.” She can’t get the words out, hardly a whisper across her lips.

“They were going to give you to the Imps. The Imps!” He’s practically shouting, his voice crackling through the modulator as he tells her what she only recently found out. “And you still call them ‘your people’ Shayr’la, you do not belong here and you know it. You’re just too scared to believe it”

He's nearly vibrating out of his skin with fury, but he's said his peace, to her and to the Mand’alor. So he turns and leaves taking his anger and heat with him out the door. And she left in the room feeling.

Just feeling… hurt.

And it feels as if someone reached into her chest, grabbed a hold of her heart and gave it a squeeze to see if it could bleed. If it could bleed inside her. Would the blood still show? Would it fill up her lungs and come tumbling over her lips, or would it stay deep inside and drown her. Choking her from the inside out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Don’t you care?**

**Yes.**

———

**_TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE JOR’ADIR BE NUHUR_ **

The Mand’alor paces back and forth in the throne room, waiting for Shayr’la to show. _I should have just found her myself, Paz might—_ The door creaks open, interrupting his train of thought, and Shayr’la walks in. Her long golden dress stands contrast against her dark skin and the Mand’alor thinks, like he has so often lately, about how beautiful she looks. 

He walks to her, the sound of his boots echo around the room, with a greeting resting just on the tip of his tongue but the closer he gets the more he notices she’s upset. Her cheeks are blotchy and her normally clear brown eyes are now red rimmed and puffy. _She’s been crying._ “Ka’ra?” He reaches her and cups her face in his gloved hands, rubbing his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks. “Are you alright?”

She doesn't want to answer him, scared her voice will crack and give away too much emotion. She brings her hands up to cover over his and she nods, nuzzling into his palms. 

“Okay, Ka’ra.” She knows that he doesn’t believe her, but she can’t bring herself to tell him what Paz said, that he felt compelled to say those things to her. 

Did he not see that she did care? 

She just… It takes… _It hurts._

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath to calm herself back down. Inhaling the leather and woodsy musk that is ultimately him, she turns her face into the leather of his gloves and kisses it. Not realizing what she’s done until it's too late, just caught up in the comfort he always seems to provide for her.

_Oh._

Shayr’la clears her throat, trying to break the tension she’s accidentally created. “Paz said you wanted to see me.” She looks up into the black T of his visor. “Did you need something, Mand’alor?”

_She hasn’t moved away._

“I.. uh, yes.” He slides a hand to the back of her neck, _slow_ , and takes a small step towards her. “We need to practice.” She cocks her head to the side, a mimic of the Mandalorians around her, he wonders if she realizes that she has picked up the little quirk.

_Cute._

“Practice?” she questions. “Practice what?” He invades her senses, her space, her mind, _her soul_. And she allows him to maneuver her head, tilting it up with a thumb to her jaw. She unconsciously moves closer to him, like an invisible string tying them together; a pull to one another that neither wants to admit to and yet they have no control over. 

The rasp of his voice comes through the modulator answering her, “Te redalur.”

———

The Mand’alor starts the music, something with a flowing beat that repeats itself and is easy to keep time to. He walks back to the center of the room where she is waiting for him. She looks nervous, hands twisting with one another.

“Just follow my lead, Ka’ra.” He nods his helmet at her in encouragement trying to swallow down his own nerves.

Shaking out her arms to loosen up, she pushes back the voice of Paz telling her she doesn’t belong, that she doesn’t care. She does. Taking a deep breath in, she steadies herself, looks back, and acknowledges that she is ready.

_For anything._

The Mand’alor lifts his right arm, bent at the elbow, palm facing Shayr’la and she mimics him. Taking a step to her he matches their forearms together but doesn’t clasp her hand. He walks her through the first few steps his eyes taking in her form and the determination set in her face. Half to make sure she is following his lead and keeping in time, and half because he can’t drag himself to look away from her.

They twirl around the room in time with the music, only stumbling in their steps occasionally, “You’re doing very well Ka’ra,” she looks up to the visor, a smile gracing her lips, but before she can speak she trips over her feet as they spin and he's there catching her, pulling her into him before she has a chance to fall. The laugh that escapes her causes his heart to clench and warmth blooms in his chest. 

He wants to hear her laugh more. 

He wants to cause that laughter. 

———

The Mand’alor watches her as she tries to take in the next steps he showed her, a series of side steps and a flourish of a spin to end it. It was a simple end to the dance that they have been practicing for a while.

“Why do they call you Vizsla?” Shayr’la keeps her head down, memorizing the steps she’s taking. The question has been plaguing her for months but she never felt that there was a good time to ask, and if the name is soon to be her own she might as well ask now, “Is it really your last name?”

He steps to her before answering, pulling her into his arms, they start again when the beat begins its repeat, “No, no it is not.” He’s not surprised by her questioning and he's happy to oblige her. “A long time ago on another planet there used to be many of us, many different clans, many different leaders, Alor’s—” 

She interrupts his explanation, looking up to him excited that she recognizes one of their words, “The children have called me that, I wasn’t sure what it meant.” There’s a sparkle in her eye. He can tell she wants to learn, that she wants to know more about them. She wouldn’t spend hours in the story halls translating and scribing the stories if she didn’t.

_Paz is mistaken. She does belong here. She wants to be here._

_Right?_

“—yes,” he takes her hands pulling her into him bringing their bodies flush together, a small puff of air escapes her as one of his arms wraps around her waist, settling into the dip of her lower back. She looks up to him, it almost never fails that she finds his eyes and this time is no exception.

“You will be my wife,” he doesn’t mean for it to sound so possessive, but it does. And he _likes_ it. Does she? “So in turn you will be their leader.” He spins her out, letting her go as far as he can, until they are only held together by each other’s fingertips. “That is, if you want to be.”

He pulls her back into him, his arms resuming their hold around her body. They’re close, _so close_ , that if it weren’t for his helmet they would be breathing each other in, consuming one another. 

_If they wanted._

Shayr’la’s eyes dance across the emotionless helmet, forever seeing her own reflection looking back at her. Never the face beneath. She wonders what he looks like, if his eyes are as kind as she thinks they are. If his voice is just as rough and pleasant sounding without the modulator. Does he have stubble or a beard lining his face? Or does he shave everyday to keep it from irritating?

_How does he look when he smiles?_

He’s so caught up in her gaze that he hasn’t realized he’s stopped talking. Stopped moving. They’re just staring at each other. Wrapped up in each other’s arms. The Mand’alor drags his gloved hand up her spine sending a shiver through her body and pulling her out of her own thoughts.

“Mand’alor?” she whispers out, not wanting to break whatever is happening.

His hand rubs at the bare skin between her shoulder blades, he doesn’t know what he’s doing but he knows he doesn't want to stop. “I— sorry, Ka’ra,” he apologizes, his own voice just barely caught in his vocoder. Though he doesn’t take any movement to stop the drag of his hand along the edges of her dress at her back, or to separate himself from her embrace.

In a hushed tone she asks “Do you want to take it off?”

He cocks his helmet to the side in confusion and shock at her question. His hand stilling at her back with a finger hooking underneath the fabric there, “You— I—” the Mand’alor stumbles over his words as his brain tries to catch up to what Shayr’la asked him.

“ _What_?”

Smirking at his bewilderment and finding his stupor amusing she wonders, “Do you ever want to take it off?” 

“The helmet?” he slides his finger along the back of her dress, sliding up her shoulder. He plays with the fabric that lays gently there, almost teasing it. Moving it only slightly, gauging her reaction. He doesn’t see any objection in her eyes. No hesitance to his movement. Maybe only a hesitance in wanting to let herself crave.

She nods. Whether it be from his spoken, or unspoken question he doesn’t know. But he’s not going to argue with her. 

Not when the leather of his glove drags across her skin. Caressing it. Feeling the warmth from her skin bleed through. How would it feel against his bare skin? 

Against his palm? 

_His lips._

They can’t help but gravitate towards one another. Drawn in by something neither one wants to put a word to. Too afraid it could break. That it could shatter into a million pieces and then they would never be able to put it back together. So she looks away from him, eyes cast down to the few necklaces that lay against his chest. Reaching out to touch them, her fingers dance over the chains and beads there. 

_What do they mean?_

“Recently.” His voice timid, just picked up by the helmet. Shayr’la closes her eyes at the feel of his gloved hand rounding her shoulder and dragging along her collarbone to rest at the base of her throat. 

A pause.

A moment.

A break.

A swallow.

And then movement. His fingers curl around the back of her neck while his thumb caresses the hollow of her neck. He glides his hand up, tilting her head to look directly at him. Eyes open— wide, and dilated, and bright.

And there’s a fire in her stare.

“ _I’ve been thinking about it._ ”

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Te redalur - the dance  
> Jor’adir be nuhur - celebration of good times

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ huliabitch


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